Мой брат
by Nicholas de Vilance
Summary: What's it like being dead? What happy things do the dead remember? Do you remember me? //slash twincest. character death. mucho angst//


Nicholas: Yeah, this is a downer...a MAJOR downer. It's Becki's fault. I'm just her pet-thing that does as it's told.

Disclaimer: Don't own it, so there!

Rating: M...over-all explicitness...this is the whole shabang, ladies and gentlemen...sex...violence...language...ANGST!! To the enth degree!!

Note: The title is Russian for "My Brother" It is pronounced "moy brat" and Russian is awesome. The Russian song lyrics that you see throughout the fic is from a beautiful song called "Brat'ya" but I don't know the artist. The song the bar-lady sings is called "Unchained Melody" and it is effin' EPIC!! Enjoy

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**Мой брат**

_What's it like being dead? What happy things do the dead remember? Do you remember me?_

Prosti menya, mladshiy brat! (Прости меня, младший брат!)  
Ya tak pred toboy vinovat. ( Я так пред тобой виноват.)  
Pyitatsya vernut' nyelsya (Пытаться вернуть нельзя)  
Togo, chto vzlaya zyemlya. (Того, что взяла земля.)

I licked the scars on my brother's flesh, tasting sweat, salt and blood. My blood, his blood, they are one in the same and always will be. That night has played over and over in my mind; it's as if I can go back and change just one detail, make it so that it never happened; I'd sell my soul to fix that one little mistake. We both knew I shouldn't taste him, touch him or kiss him like I did. We both knew it would land us in a world of hurt. We both felt the fire and brimstone at the backs of our necks, but it was just so sweet to ignore sin and wrong for the sake of leaving behind all that pain in a flutter of discarded clothing and heated, blasphemous moans.

Forever and always, I will hold this knowledge dear: he loved no one else but me. God doesn't hold a candle when it comes to the adoration and worship that he bestowed on me and me alone. Of course, I returned the favor on various occasions, whenever I got the chance. Now was one of those occasions. It just happened to be the last.

I knelt between his legs and kissed a firm but gentle line down his abdomen while he shivered and cooed beneath me. "Yer as hot as hellfire," he told me, over and over again, in every language we knew. The inferno deep inside of me raged to something lethal as I let my head descend mechanically, drawing from his throat what I should never hear first-hand. My tongue drew a wet line up the underside of his manhood and I gripped tightly to his hips. "Sie sind ebenso heiß wie Höllenfeuer," he gasped, first in German, then in French, "Tu es plus chaud que le feu d'enfer." No nightingale sings so sweet.

His head pressed back into the pillow as his heels dug harshly against my scapula. In all honesty, I thought I might break from the feirceness of him, of my brother. Vibrant power radiated from his every muscle and desperate pleasure brought him under my complete control. I always loved him like this. I'll always miss him like this.

Kto znayet zakon Byitiya,( Кто знает закон Бытия,)  
Pomog byi mne nayti otvet, (Помог бы и мне найти ответ.)  
Zhestoko oshibsya ya; (Жестоко ошибся я:)  
Ot smerti lekarvsta nyet. (От смерти лекарства нет.)

"Get the fuck outta bed, ya disgusting heathens!" That was Da, and before I knew it, I had fallen off of the mattress and onto the floor. Murphy was sitting up, the blanket clinging to his chest as his surprise got the better of him and made him almost fly to the ceiling. Luckily I still had my boxers on, but Murph wasn't so fortunate.

"Calm down, old man," my twin snarled. He was still tired from earlier, and I didn't blame him. I just wished he didn't have to be so disrespectful. That was definitely _not_ how to get Il Duce to calm down.

"Watch yer fuckin' mouth, boy. Th'fuck do the two o' ya think yer doin' all cuddled tagether like faggots?" My father was seething, but trying to remain sensible. He obviously didn't want to believe what he'd just seen. "Ya have absolutely no business touchin' each other that way."

Murphy raised his chin defiantly. Defiant, stubborn-assed, beautiful Murphy was ready to defend our relationship. We'd always promised to do so if it came to this; I just hoped it would never come to this. "Maybe we are a couple o' faggots. So what?"

"I'll tell ya 'so what' ya blasphemous little fucker! If I catch ya in bed tagether again like I did jus' now, I'd do better ta shoot the both of ya."

From my vulnerable, and slightly embarrassing position on the floor, I felt my heart drop down from between my lungs when he said that. How dare he even suggest doing that to us? He didn't have any of the right to tell us what to do. What was it? _Twenty-five_ years of absence barely gave him just cause to be called 'Da' let alone to worry about saving our lost souls. "Ya wouldn't dare," I snapped indignantly.

"Don' test me, Connor Michael MacManus!" He was not only furious, he was terrifying. The roar of his voice drowned out everything from my ears and pounded a merciless punishment in my brain. As his intimidating figure loomed over me, I thought he might hit me, or kick me. I'm sure he deeply regretted missing out on our childhood being that he wasn't there to beat sense into two delinquent lads. I remembered Quentin O'Meary coming to school with a right bloodied ass when I was ten and I can only imagine what a good Irish father would do to his grown son for something like this. "Ta church with the both o' ya. Beg fergiveness fer this filth."

I muttered a submissive, frightened: "Yes Da," But didn't get the chance to stand.

"It en't filth," Murphy snapped. Within a fraction of a second, he became the Romeo to my Juliet. He was getting ready to fight to the death for our right to love each other as we would. "He's _my_ brother, Il Duce. Ya damn well should respect what we have." Murphy never called him Da.

"Exactly! He's yer _brother_, ya sick fuck. Ya want ta be a fairy, m'not gonna stop ya, but incest is where I draw the line. Don't drag Connor down with ya!"

A moment of silence passed. Have you ever felt the air escape your lungs and actually watched it float slowly away from your face? Time was non-existent at this point as what Da just said sank into my brain. Eons passed in that one, long moment before I could make sense of it, but once that was all sorted out neatly into the tiny pockets of my brain, I felt the red-hot flush take over my face. I lowered my head and breathed in again, trying to ignore it. It was impossible at this point. I just listened as Murphy became enraged and pulled his shorts on before getting out of bed to confront the old man face to face.

"Th'fuck is that s'posed ta mean?" he hissed, a lethal challenge in his throat.

I couldn't even hear the reply. I was utterly ashamed of myself and my father. The bastard was taking favorites, and I happened to be the one. Why did I have to be the "good twin"? Everyone automatically assumes that if we did something wrong, it was Murphy's idea, but that's bullshit. Ma said one that Murphy wasn't supposed to be conceived. I choose to ignore it; I choose to let Murphy be my twin like he ought to be. He wasn't any worse than me, or any better. If he was somehow taking me to hell, I was going with him of my _own free fucking will_.

"Get in yer own bed, Connor," Da snapped, breaking my trance. When I looked up, I saw two intimidating figures glaring down at me.

Murphy's intent leer wasn't anger like Da's was. My brother was silently pleading with me not to leave him, and I didn't want to. I wanted to go to him and hold him and never let go, despite what our father would think or do. It should have been just that simple, after all the promises we'd made each other, after everything we had been through together as more than friends, as more than brothers. Still, I couldn't get past Il Duce's vicious tone and deadly intentions. I genuinely believed that the man would kill not only me, but my brother as well. I was _not_ going to let that happen.

As I stood and paused, looking from one man to the other and back again, Murphy's composure lost some certainty. "Come to me, brother," he muttered in Russian. "Forget him and come to me."

"I want to, Murphy," I replied, keeping in a language Da doesn't understand. "But—I just…can't."

Fuck me sideways if he didn't look like I'd taken a knife and stabbed him clear in the heart. Wide eyes, tense shoulders, heavy breaths and I should have rushed over to him and said "I'm just fooling! Forever, my love, I'll never leave your side." I had said it often enough. Was it so different now with Da staring me down like a Tyrannosaurus Rex? The answer, my friend, was yes.

"Connor!" he called my name on the last full breath of air he could manage, but I turned away from him. I turned away from all of it.

Da smiled, I think, like the vain-assed prick that he was. I didn't pay any attention to that. I shoved him aside and grabbed my pants from the floor. After pulling them on and retrieving a T-shirt from under the bed, I had a pretty clear idea of what I was doing. I had to get out, if only for an hour or so. The door opened for me and slammed shut, closing out my death sentence and my beating heart. I would never forgive myself for this night. I know Murphy never truly did, so I had no right to think I was right in what I did. I was a coward. I was so damned blind with fear of that bastard who claims to be my father that I brought about the true end of the Saints.

Milaya mama! Nyezhnaya! (Милая мама! Нежная!)  
Myi tak lyubili tebya. (Мы так любили тебя.)  
No vse nashi silyi (Но все наши силы)  
Potrachenyi byili zrya. (Потрачены были зря.)

I had frequent nightmares after that. Constant changes of scenery from Chicago to Reno to LA didn't help put my mind at ease. It was always the same deal, as well; always the same image. Every time I went to sleep or even just dozed, I was plagued with that sly, malignant horror. It started out like any wet dream would. I was back in my brother's loving arms and he was usually fucking me hard or kissing me harder. Sometimes it was the other way around, but whoever was on top, it ended the same. At some point, his body would go limp, blood seeping out from his mouth and I would scream. I would shriek myself awake and there Da and Murphy would be, trying to calm me down. Murphy never touched me, but he seemed honestly concerned for the few moments that my trauma would last. Unfortunately, that concern faded all too quickly. It was my own fault.

I got up and went out after the most recent of these episodes. Cities tend to be colder than suburbs, I've noticed. No matter where you are, if there are tall buildings and non-stop traffic, it's freezing; especially at night. I know that if Murph and I were still together like we used to be he would never let me shiver like this. I was always taken care of in his arms no matter what happened. It was hard, but I fought back those mournful tears I'd become so familiar with the last few months. He wasn't dead; I just had to remember that. I still had my brother and he still had me no matter how much he hated me at the moment.

Life is a blur outside of my Sainthood. I barely remember what I actually did when I left that night. It didn't matter so much in comparison to the first thing I got when I returned to that shit-hole of a motel. Murphy was sitting in the chair, whittling away at a tooth pick with his favorite buoy knife. He didn't even look up at me. "Yer late," he snapped coolly.

I was taken aback. At first, I didn't want to reply, but my stubbornness got the better of me. "Th'fuck are ya talkin' about?"

"Ya said ya'd be gone ten minutes. S'been an hour."

"If it'd really been an hour, ye would've gone lookin' fer me." I made to walk past him and the bastard stuck his foot out and tripped me. I barely stopped myself from falling mid-stumble. "Why you—!"

"Oh that's right." Fucking nonchalant jerk-off. "Ya aren't good with keepin' even the simplest promises. Sorry I assumed so much o' ya."

He still didn't look at me. I thought he might have been sharpening that damn toothpick to stab me in the back with it, not that his words didn't aim for the heart anyway. What hurt so much was that even though he was taunting me, he was damn right. I hated him for being right and I hated myself for being stupid. It was blasted pride that kept me from running into his embrace and begging him to take me back, to forgive my naivete. Most certainly, it was damned arrogance that kept him from doing the same to me. Not that he needed forgiveness. He needed redemption, but he wasn't seeking it. He still loved me too much to consider the things we used to do as sin.

"Il Duce went out," he changed the subject to something more civil. "Said ta be ready when he comes back. I imagine he's plannin' somethin' big."

"Fine, I'm gonna take a shower."

"Have fun with _yerself_."

My legs couldn't break my hesitation. I stared at him and how shamelessly he displayed his sore feelings about all of this shit. _My fault_ rang in my ears for the umpteenth time and another chill sank into my gut to add to my recently developed collection. I wanted to say something—_needed_ to say something—but what on Earth could I say to make him understand? "I will, thanks," I muttered, turning my back to him.

The scraping of his knife on that toothpick stopped abruptly and I imagine he was watching my back, trying to glare holes into my lungs. Icy fingers tugged at the sinews of my heart when I heard a creak from the chair as he left it. I barely got my hand on the bathroom door before he seized the back of my shirt and shoved me against the wood.

"Get off!" I snapped, trying to shove him back. His body pressed against mine, holding me in place. "Murphy stop!"

Tebya soblaznil ya (Тебя соблазнил я)  
Prekrasnoy nadezhdoy (Прекрасной надеждой)  
Vernut' nash semeynyiy ochag. (Вернуть наш семейный очаг.)  
Moy brat, ya vo vsem vinovat. (Мой брат, я во всем виноват.)

When all is said and done, I think this was the last chance I ever got to set things right. He kissed my neck with such a delicate contrast to the way he was handling me that I wasn't sure if he wanted to hurt me or hold me. Whatever the case, he was intent on doing it whether I liked it or not. I pressed my palms against the door to try and gain some leverage to get him off of me, but his hands immediately came up to pin my wrists there.

"Why're ya strugglin', Connor?" he asked me. I could almost taste his annoyance. "Stop fightin' me."

"No!" My heart pounded to life harder than it had since Da caught us in bed together. I wanted to give in, more than I wanted to keep breathing, but my common sense started to kick in. The thought of a bullet suddenly ripping through the air into his back made me quake with fear. Da would do it, too. "Get off me, Murph! We can't do that!"

"We damn well _can_!" In the midst of his snarl, nails dug deep into my skin on the verge of drawing blood. "Ya've proved that often enough."

"Fuckin'-A! Is that all the good I am ta you?" Finally, I managed to gather enough force to push him back and away from me. I turned on heel to face him, my anger rising without restraint. "Jesus Christ! It shouldn't matter whether ya fuck me twice a week er not. I'm still yer brother an' yer still the only one I ever want ta love. We don't need sex fer that."

Suddenly his nose was inches from mine and I felt deep, harsh breaths on my face. My brother gave me a leer to compete with Da's and I was almost as scared of that as I was of Hell. "I need my brother. Not Il Duce's prissy-boy son." Both of his fists came to rest on either side of my head, boxing me in like a caged wolf. "We were so happy b'fore he came along an' started yappin' his nonsense about bein' a family again. _I_ was with ya longer 'en he was. Who got ya outta that fight with John McAvoy back in primary school? Who held ya at night when ya had nightmares? Hm? Answer me!!"

I closed my eyes, wishing he'd just leave me alone. Of course, he didn't. He was a MacManus, after all, and it runs in the family to be a royal pain in the ass. Two hands gripped my shirt, pulling me upwards, against him. "I did!" he snapped viciously, "An' where was he? Not with Ma where he shoulda been. Not with us, his _sons_! How can ya accept _that_ as yer father?"

"Shut up!" I shouted, socking him squared in the jaw. He shrunk back, staring wide-eyed and holding his face. My actions weren't my own when I drew back for another punch. "Shut the fuck up!" It was nothing short of amazing when he stumbled backward and away from me. I've never seen him look so defenseless and I hated it at once. My fist lingered in the air, aiming for him, but not following through. I couldn't, even if I tried. Not while he had that look on his face.

"He's not my father," he said. His voice was small, his eyes adverted.

"Then you aren't my brother…" I'll never understand why I said that. He barely had enough time to look completely and utterly crushed before the door opening cut him off. We both started bad enough to jump three feet in the air and I'm certain Da noticed the tense air as he entered.

"What's goin' on in here?" the old man asked flatly. The sharp snap of the door shutting broke through Murphy's vulnerability and brought out the hard, cold man that my twin had turned into over the last long while.

"Nothin'. Yer son's a goody-fuckin'-two-shoes. Be proud."

Da looked at me sharply and suspiciously as Murphy turned away. I just shrugged, uncomfortable with how things went. He didn't need to know what I had said. In fact, it was none of his fucking business, and I'm glad he didn't think he had the right to ask. He let it drop and went on a different subject. "We're goin' out, load yer guns."

Nye plach', nye pechal'sya, starshiy brat! (Не плачь, не печалься, старший брат!)  
Nye tyi odin vinovat. (Не ты один виноват.)  
Doroga u nas odna, (Дорога у нас одна,)  
Iskupim vinu do dna. (Искупим вину до дна.)

I sat in the front passenger seat of our older-than-dirt Cadillac as Da drove through the quiet, deadly streets of Downtown LA at around midnight. My heart kept banging harshly against my rib cage when I looked in the rearview mirror to catch my brother's eyes. He was always looking out the window at something that seemed to captivate his immediate interest. He knew how I was feeling, I'm sure of it. I could feel the agitation and malice seeping out of his pores, I'm damn certain he could sense my stress and unease.

We had a job to do tonight, which meant a whole lot of blood and bullets. I really could have done without that right now. My throat was tight and my stomach felt like it had shrunk into a tennis ball-sized lump of nausea and anxiety. I didn't like this. Of course we've done it many times before, and all those times I still didn't like it. I was quite a bit more enthusiastic when it was just Murph and myself out on a job, but now…One more person to worry about.

Damn it, Murphy was right. Murphy always has to fucking be right about every god damned thing! I wanted so much just to jump into that back seat and smother him with love and affection and "Oh Christ I'm sorry!" 's but how would that end? I wouldn't dare do a thing like that when Il Duce was sitting next to me with not two but six guns close to his person. Not going to fucking happen. So I'm scared of the man, I think that fact has been well established and in all honesty, who wouldn't be? I mean…besides my bat-fuck nuts brother.

"We're we goin', Da?" I asked to shoo away that nagging silence. I didn't dare try and talk to the man behind me who probably hated me and had right to.

"Just a few more minutes 'til we get there."

"He didn't ask 'how long,' he wants ta know where the fuck yer takin' us." Personally, I barely heard Murphy's grumbled statement, I wasn't so sure he'd said anything at all. Da, however, has some excellent hearing.

The old man tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "One more fuckin' word outta ya, asshole, I'll knock yer head six ways from Sunday."

We all became very taciturn in the following moments. I could hear the purr of the engine and the vicious pounding of my core as it tried to break apart from fear of what may come. I can't tell exactly what I was afraid of, but I was damned petrified at the thought of it. This silence was too much. I needed substance, not emptiness. "Murphy, say something funny," I requested, trying to be as pleasant as possible.

Two dying blue eyes glowered at me through the mirror. There was a time when those beautiful were so vibrant and full of life that I could watch them for hours on end. The tragic end of that gnawed at our souls as a collective whole. "Guy walks into a bar and says 'hi' to the bartender," he began flatly, "His friends runs into a bar and yells 'ouch.'"

I scoffed, something that wanted to be a laugh but missed the punch line. "That's not funny."

"I'm sorry I don' live up ta yer expectations anymore, _brother_." He spat that last word out like it burned his tongue to even think of saying it. I hid my wince.

Mnye nye v chem tebya upreknut'. (Мне не в чем тебя упрекнуть,)  
I ya nye obihen nichut'. (И я не обижен ничуть.)  
Tyazhek, nash gryekh (Тяжек, наш грех)  
Khotet' byit' silneye vsekh. (Хотеть быть сильнее всех.)

Fuck me…fuck me…We were screwed up down and sideways. I have absolutely no idea what got into Il Duce's head when he decided that we might be able to take down some twenty-odd mafia men. So there we stood, hidden by nothing but a wall from a collection of some of the meanest-looking men I'd ever laid eyes upon. "What the fuck is wrong with ya?" Murphy hissed under his breath, just close enough to Da to be heard. "Yer tryin' ta get us killed, aren't ya?"

"Shut it," my father snapped as forcefully as he could without speaking loud enough to give away our position.

"No, Da, he's right. We oughta get the fuck outta here while we still can."

"Quiet with the both o' ya! Jus' do what I say an' ye'll be jus' fine."

We weren't. From what I can clearly remember about the fight, Murphy and I both ran out of ammunition before we shot all of which we'd set out to. Da had four other fucking guns and was doing a lot better with them. He looked like a demon with fire power as he shot mechanically over and over again, hitting each of his targets at least five times. Fucking waste of bullets! I didn't bother him with it because this had turned into a hands-on fight for me and "Don Carleone" here. Fortunately, the guy seemed out of bullets as well because he tossed his gun in my direction. I dodged and ran at him, ramming my shoulder into his gut when he tried to catch me. Good thing I was smaller and nimbler than this shmuck. I grabbed him by the hair and pulled him to the ground, ramming his head into the floorboards over and over again until I heard that reassuring crack. He had long since stopped moving, but I kicked him a few more times just to let off some steam. My victory was short-lived. From somewhere maybe down the hall I heard Murphy scream.

"Da! Gimme a gun!" I shouted. The man was busy taking care of two other pricks, so he didn't hear me. I ran up to a bloodied body and grabbed a shiny, nickel-plated pistol before running out of that room like a bet out of hell. "Murph!" Good way to keep a low profile in a slaughter house.

How did my brother even get out of there? Was he after someone? Did I somehow manage to chase him off again? Another scream from the end of the hallway and I knew exactly where I was going. This pain started up in my head and I knew for a fact it wasn't from this adrenaline rush. It pulsed against my skull so fiercely I thought I might pass out if I slowed down too much.

I kicked the door in without a second thought and aimed blindly at the first thing I saw. Two fucking peons, cutting "decorations" into Murphy's face as my poor twin lay pinned to the floor with heavy feet on his wrists. I didn't miss this time, but I can't stop wishing that I had shot just a fraction of a second earlier. There were three shots, two of which were mine, and both fat fuckers crumbled to the ground like discarded luggage.

Just a few moments leeway and this would have turned out drastically different. If I had just squeezed that fucking trigger the minute I'd opened that door and not worried about the gun in one of the men's hand pointed at my brother…Murphy cried out, hollering at the ceiling with more agony that I thought was humanly possible. The weight of what had just happened bore down on me, threatening to break my skeleton into tiny bits of dust. I hesitated as I watched Murph wrap his arms around himself blood oozed up from his gut.

"Murphy?" I ran to him; just the way I had wanted to do these past months. I didn't care right then because my heart was dangling on a thread watching my dearest love writhe on the floor in so much pain. "Murph!"

"Fuck!" he hissed, body convulsing on a set point somewhere in his stomach. "It hurts!" He screamed again, slamming his head back into the floor. "Jesus Christ, it hurts, it _hurts_!!"

"Where, where does it hurt, dear?" My hands were shaking as I followed his unsteady indications to a large hole just above his naval. He was not only shot, he was… "Shit…yer gonna be fine," I told him. My sinuses started to flare up behind my eyes and a floodgate threatened to unleash its waters as the word _fatal_ came to mind. I pulled the upper half of his body up from the floor and held him against my chest as I knelt there.

"No!" he shouted in protest, bloody hands pushing me hard to release him. "Can't…move…" Air hissed in and out of his chest in irregular coughs and gags and whimpers. Dark red lines had been clawed into his cheeks, marring beautiful flesh. I should be a sin to do such a thing to my lovely friend. "Conn?" he asked as though he wasn't sure.

"Aye, s'me," I replied. I petted his face gently and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. I should have done that such a long time ago. _You stupid ass!_ my mind screamed at me. "I'm here, lover, what is it?"

"I'm…ack!" His throat got the better of him and he choked on his own saliva for a moment. I did my best to keep my heart from stopping until that sudden spell ceased. "I'm gonna…die, aren't I?"

Niagara Falls just came to LA and I was blinded by harsh, acid tears at those horrifying words. "No!" I insisted, childishly holding on to some lost hope. "No, yer gonna be fine. M'not gonna let anythin' happen ta ye, I promise."

The thrashing of his limbs started to ease up a bit and his face twisted into what should have been a smirk. "Ya aren't good with…keepin'"—cough—"promises, remember? Yer eyes're…floatin', mon cher." I saw he was right when two little droplets of salt water fell onto his cheek.

Carefully, I leaned down and licked it away, tasting sweat, salt, and blood. His blood was still my blood. It tasted just the same as it always had in that fairy tale we had shared so long ago. "No…" Unless my ears deceived me, my voice was nothing more than a stubborn whine. "I won't let ya. Don't ya dare…" My breath came up to fast and made me hic-up.

"It hurts," he complained again, high-pitched squeal.

"I'm sorry!" I held him tight to me and for the first time in a long time I kissed him on the lips. I didn't care that Il Duce may have followed me by now and was standing behind me with a disgusted look. Nothing mattered anymore. The world was falling into an ocean of insanity. "I'm _so_ sorry!"

Two blood-red, wet fingers came up and covered my lips to hush me. His gaze was strangely calm as life flowed back into those eyes of his. "Make it stop, Conn." At first I had no idea what he was talking about, I was so captivated by seeing him more vibrant than I had in a long time. "Please! Ya have a gun?"

"What?" An eerie chill danced up my spine. I was so damned close to throwing his body away from me, afraid of the insinuation and what it meant, but I just held closer. "No! I won't do that. Ask me anythin' else, but not that!"

Murphy clung tightly to my shirt, another rage of excruciation wafting through him. "_Please_!! For the love of all that is holy…just…" His resigned tears leaked out onto my sleeve when he clenched his eyes shut. "You owe me, ya fucker," he teased half-heartedly. "Who saved yer ass from Mr. O'Riley's dogs when we were twelve? Huh? Answer me."

I let out a shaky sigh, trying to be as calm as he was in this situation. God he was so strong, even then. If I never looked up to anyone else in my entire life, Murphy was my role-model. He was the embodiment of Bravery, Fierceness and Magnificence. "You did…" Wet tracks ran down the tip of my nose and he scooped away those droplets.

"Damn straight," he laughed dryly. "So…" He groped around him for that gun I dropped and forced it into my hand. "This one last thing…do it for me."

I looked at the weapon as it shivered in my grasp. I could barely see it behind the wall of moisture backing up in my eyes. I didn't owe him a goddamned thing, and he knew it, the motherfucker. My grip flexed uncomfortably as the feel of a pistol in my hand became exceedingly foreign. "I…can't…"

"Yes ya can, Connor. Ya got more guts than anyone else I know, an' I say that with pride. Hell, yer me brother, after all, right?"

"Right."

"Then do me this last favor, alright?" He brought his hand up and dragged his thumb along my jaw. That simple contact alone brought back memories of years with nothing but that. My mouth fell open and I closed my eyes to savor that loving touch as long as I could. Then he flinched and cried out a meaningless curse in yet another wave of pain. "Please, lover! Hurry!"

I couldn't watch. I aimed the barrel at his head and shut my eyes, praying to God for this not to happen. Why would He do this to me? I'm not the worst sinner out there. I just happened to be…His warm, wet palm reached up to cup the back of my hand and I squeezed the trigger. Then with a loud pop and a quiet thud…there was no more Murphy.

Milaya mama! Nyezhnaya! (Милая мама! Нежная!)  
Myi tak lyubili tebya. (Мы так любили тебя.)  
No vse nashi silyi (Но все наши силы)  
Potrachenyi byili zrya. (Потрачены были зря.)

I glared at him from across the table. We hadn't said a fucking word to each other as we drove away from that empty lot near the park where we buried my brother's body. Hearing that in my head _buried my brother's body_ was like a knife plunging into my heart over and over again. And this suave motherfucker hadn't said a goddamned _word_ to me after all that. It almost felt as if I was still on the floor of that Mafia house staring at my hands, stained with brother's blood, and _he_ still decided to keep his mouth shut. _You fucking asshole_…

Taking my eyes off of him for just a moment, I took a deep swig of beer. The noises of the bar around me kept me safe and warm inside reality, but the cold pit that was where my lungs tried to breath gave everything a surreal, scary feel. Even the voice of the lady-singer at the back of the room seemed magnified by this acute sense of the harshness of life.

"_Oh my love, My darling…I've hungered for your touch,_" she sang with a beautiful mezo-soprano buzz. "_A long, lonely time…And time goes by so slowly. And time can do so much. Are you still mine?_" The cruel truth of those words pressed against my head like a ton of bricks. My consciousness wavered for a moment, but I recovered myself enough to listen. "_I need your love…I need your love. God speed your love to me_."

I returned my glare to my—until recently known as—father and continued to brood on past events. "You bastard," I muttered under my breath.

"What was that?"

"Ya killed him." I was never more certain of anything in my life, and it felt so good to finally open my eyes to what my father was. The rough part is that I was three months too late.

"What did ya say?" he asked honestly. He managed to sever his attention from the floor long enough to hear me.

"Ya killed my brother," I repeated coolly, confidently. "Those fuckin' mobsters just happened ta be there, but you…ya planned it ta go that way, didn't ya?"

"I don' know what the fuck yer talkin' about."

Enraged, I stood from my seat, knocking it backwards with an interrupting clatter. "Don' gimme that shite, ya cocksucker!" I snapped, maybe louder than I should have. The lady on stage stopped her song to stare in wonder at the prick that interjected in her spotlight. "Fuck you, alright. I had somethin' wonderful b'fore ya shoved yer fuckin' nose inta our lives. Jus' tell me why, b'fore I walk the fuck outta here."

"Sit down, Connor."

I reached across the table and grabbed the collar of his shirt to pull him forward. I wasn't afraid of this man anymore. What was there to be afraid of when my one purpose was now dead in the ground? "Don' ya fuckin' condescend me! I don't know what the fuck my mother was thinkin' when she fucked you, but I am _not_ yer son!"

Ya sam soblaznilsya (Я сам соблазнился)  
Prekprasnoy nadezhdoy (Прекрасной надеждой)  
Vernut' nash semeinyiy ochag. (Вернуть наш семейный очаг.)  
Ya sam vo vsem vinovat. (Я сам во всем виноват.)

The chill of LA bit sharply at the back of my neck but I didn't so much as turn up my collar to ward it off. I didn't deserve comfort because really, how comfortable can it be with four feet of dirt on top of you? Staring down at the freshly turned soil, I let the tears come as they would.

"I'm gonna miss you, ya know," I began, but I laughed at my own stupid cliché. I think Murphy knows by now how much I already miss him. I tried again. "I'm not going to say that I wish ye were here er anythin' bullshite like that, 'cause it's all bollocks, really. Yer gone, an'…fuck that sucks. But now I get ta live with that never-fadin' memory o' my beautiful, god-like brother. I'll never ferget yer strength an' what it felt like ta be held in yer arms. I'll never let myself stray ta lips that can't hold a candle ta yer taste. It will always be you, lover. Now an' forever.

"I really fucked up towards the end there, didn't I? There's no excuse for my idiocy except that I actually believed that that motherfucker was tryin' ta be a father again. I wanted that _so_ badly, Murph, an' ya knew that. Er…ya _know_ that, where you are right now. I told the fucker off an' I left him there. I don' need him anymore. What I really need is my beautiful little brother back." I could almost hear the indignant retaliation to being called "little." My voice broke a bit and I waited a while before trying to go on.

"I retire my Sainthood. There's no point in it without you, Murphy. I'm surprised ya didn't take my breath with ya when ya…what…I—What is it like being dead? What happy things do the dead remember? Do ya remember me? Do ya hear me from all the way up there? As long as I live I'll never ferget ya; how alive ya were right at the end; what a beautiful creature ya were in this shit-hole world.

"It's gonna be hard, but I'll keep on livin' fer you, dear. I'll live my life until it's been lived fuller than God intended. No more fear, no more pain. I'm gonna do what you tried ta convince me ta do, but I never listened. All o' those times I said 'be careful' and 'that's too dangerous'…that was all bullshite. I just…_wish_ I wasn't so blind that I only just realized that. All of my life, ye were the one, baby. I'll never let that go. Not as long as I breathe, an' even after I stop.

"I have ta go now, an' I have this feelin' I'll never see this place again, so…I have ta leave without something. My soul wanders this waking world, but ya took my heart with ya. Count those beats until the day we get to meet again, moy brat."

With a sigh that took years off of my already shortened life-time, I dropped down to my hands and knees and kissed the soft ground that separated me from my everything. "Good bye…for now."

I stood and I walked away. I never looked back.

No chto zhe nam delat', kak byit'? (Но что же нам делать, как быть?)  
Kak vse ispravit', zyabyit'? (Как все исправить, забыть?)  
Pyitat'sya vernut' nyel'zhya, (Пытаться вернуть нельзя,)  
Togo, chto vzyala zyemlya. (Того, что взяла земля.)


End file.
